


...Left Unspoken

by Jambammer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jambammer/pseuds/Jambammer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dying. Mycroft is with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...Left Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before series 2, what might have happened if the bomb had exploded.

The two remain silent, unsure of what words could ever do justice to what needed to be expressed.

The Holmes brothers never did express feelings openly with one another anyways; no feelings except that of exasperation and great annoyance.

There's no annoyance now. Well, Sherlock may be annoyed that Mycroft hasn't left him to die in peace, the elder supposes, but if that's true, the younger does not show it. He doesn't show much of anything, really. There's a strange blankness in his normally piercing eyes, and if the machine he is hooked to hadn't been indicating signs of life, Mycroft would swear his brother is already gone.

Perhaps, he is.

Perhaps he's already on his way to joining his companion, John.

Moriarty was lucky to have perished in the explosion. If he hadn't, Mycroft would have seen to it personally that the bastard died slowly, and painfully. He'd have watched the life drain from the wretched man with cold indifference, perhaps chuckling if his victim dared to beg for mercy.

But no, Moriarty had perished, as had John, and soon, so would Sherlock.

This is just a fact.

John is truly dead, this is another fact. From what Mycroft had seen of the scene, John hadn't died slowly but it hadn't been instantaneous either. Mycroft swallows the lump in his throat that forms from the memory. He had reached the scene just as the paramedics were pulling his brother away from the body. Once they had separated the body - _John_ \- from the pale man's vice like grip, he'd been quiet and withdrawn, and didn't fight the paramedics that rushed him into an ambulance.

Shrapnel from the explosion had been embedded near John's heart; enough to have secured his spot among the dead. From the blood that had coated Sherlock's hands, face and soaked into the white fabric of his shirt, it appeared as though he had held the doctor until John left the world. It seemed as though he hadn't noticed the shrapnel that pierced his own stomach, causing him to bleed out. By the time help came, it was too late to save John, and that meant it was too late for Sherlock.

The moment the shrapnel had nearly taken John's heart, it took Sherlock's instead.

Mycroft would never forget the scene. The dust and blood and tragedy.

Now, in the oddly bright hospital room, his younger brother lays motionless in the bed, his only movement being the slow and shallow rising and falling of his chest; he is waiting.

Dressed in a white hospital gown, Sherlock's ivory skin blended in and the lack of colour made the various gashes stand out far more. The curls that framed his face somehow seemed darker. They reminded the elder of their father; Sherlock had inherited his hair, along with his stubbornness.

Mycroft shakes his head. His brother lies dying, yet his thoughts jumped to their genetics. Strange how grief affects the mind.

Mycroft doesn't need the machines to know that his only remaining family member is growing weaker by the moment.

Blood loss, the doctors claimed, from internal injuries, nothing could be done.

Mycroft knows better. They had no idea why he is dying, but Mycroft knows.

Sherlock just didn't want to live. His closest friend, the only person he ever truly called friend, was gone, and he undoubtedly blames himself.

Mycroft could have forced the doctors to keep Sherlock alive. Drugs, machines, blood transfusions, organ replacements... He could have any of it available to his brother in an instant. There is no point. Contrary to what his brother may believe, he cares. Mycroft's always cared. Unfortunately, he's never learned how to show it, so he's always done so in the ways that he could. Keeping Sherlock under surveillance, making sure he had cases to work on, and so on.

He sniffs.

Lot of good the surveillance had turned out to be.

He clears his throat audibly, breaking the silence and causing Sherlock to turn his eyes. "Moriarty's dead," he announces precisely. Sherlock manages a tiny nod. His eyes are glazed from the painkillers; Mycroft's thankful that at least he'll die without suffering, and he'll be high on a drug that the elder suspects his baby brother is no stranger to.

"I know."

Mycroft nods, clearing his throat again. "Right. I... I'll see to it that you get a state funeral."

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Don't you dare." He shifts and looks up at the ceiling. "Just bury me next to Mum and Dad, as I'm sure I have no choice in that matter. But get John the plot beside me; I might get bored otherwise."

"I don't think you realize the extent of what you and John have done. You're a hero, Sherlock, and—" He stops, noticing that his brother has broken into a fit of strained, bitter laughter. "What, may I ask, is so funny?"

"John and I had a discussion," Sherlock answers once he has calmed enough to speak, "and I told him that there were no such things as heroes. I'm certainly not one."

Mycroft scoffs. "Now, really..."

"I went after him because I was _bored_ , Mycroft, not because I wanted to help humanity. John paid for that," Sherlock's eyes remain empty voids. "If there is a hero, it is him."

"Fair enough," Mycroft agrees. He looks down to the floor. "However, I saw from the blood patterns on your clothing that you tried to administer aid to him. There were also droplets of water on John's shirt..."

"We were at a _pool_ , Mycroft."

"Right." No, no, it wasn't pool water. He had tried to save his life, and cried when he realized he couldn't. "You finally cared about someone besides yourself," he says quietly, and when he looks back up, he is suddenly very aware that Sherlock is not the only one who will shed tears that day. "I knew you could. You are not as cold as you would like to believe."

Sherlock lowers his eyes. "Neither are you." He swallows, knowing his time is growing shorter. He can almost swear that he hears John calling his name. "I suppose..." He stops, taking a breath. "I suppose this is goodbye."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Mycroft answers.

"This time you won't be able to chase after me."

"No, I'm afraid not, not for some time. I can't afford to leave the office very long, you see. There is some pressing business these days. There was a nasty explosion at some pool... gas leak, likely," he declares, and his brother laughs quietly. "I believe people normally hug goodbye when they will be separated for some time."

Sherlock looks wary of the idea. "If we must," Sherlock answers.

The resulting embrace is awkward, Mycroft leaning down to hug Sherlock gently, doing his best to avoid the dying man's wound. He is surprised when Sherlock holds him tight and his fingers clench the jacket of Mycroft's suit. The elder strokes his brother's curls soothingly, pressing his face against them as he lets his tears fall.

It is the first time in either memory that they have ever hugged.

When they pull apart, both resume composure and ignore the other's tears. "Give my regards to Mum and Dad, and John, of course," Mycroft says, sitting back down in his chair and ignoring the burning in his eyes.

"I'll see if I can find the time to," Sherlock answers flatly.

Mycroft takes his hand, and Sherlock squeezes back in unspoken thanks. They stay like this until the beeping stops, and he is left as the last remaining Holmes.


End file.
